


Tinsel

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8732020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bard receives a saucy letter for the holidays.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Saucy Cards” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It still irks him to have to call, “ _Alfrid!_ ” but sometimes there’s just too much _work_ to be done, and someone has to fetch the kids supper. Sigrid will likely take care of Bain and Sigrid, but Bard always likes to send someone to check in when he won’t make it home in time. Alfrid’s supposed to do that. Alfrid doesn’t answer.

With a grumble, Bard sets down the scroll listing out crop progress—apparently, it’s become his job to overrun that, just like almost everything in Dale. Life was simpler with just his barge and bow. But his children do eat better now, and at least he doesn’t have Alfrid ruining his life anymore.

Well, not actively, anyway. 

Bard leaves his cluttered office with a roll of his shoulders—he’s stiff from sitting all day. The persistent cold doesn’t help things—winter here is no kinder than it was on the lake. Sure enough, he finds Alfrid sitting at the lone desk outside his office, bent with even poorer posture than usual. Alfrid has one hand thrust into his long coat, the other clutching a piece of parchment, and it takes Bard a second to realize what he’s walked in on.

Then he snaps, cheeks staining dark red, “Alfrid!” And Alfrid flushes even brighter and practically jumps out of his chair. He whirls on Bard with wide eyes, one hand still conspicuously hidden. When he turns, it gives Bard a better glance at the parchment—it’s lined in a flowing, silver script that could only be from one author. Alfrid opens his mouth and splutters uselessly, looking rather like a fish, and Bard hisses, “What are you doing?”

Alfrid mutters, “Nothing.” He tries to sneer, but his nervousness ruins the effect, and then he suddenly swivels and tries to stuff the parchment into one of his drawers, but Bard’s faster. He lunges forward to catch Alfrid’s black sleeve and hold his wrist steady. Alfrid lets out an audible gulp. 

“Somehow,” Bard seethes, “I very much doubt the Elf King wrote _you_. Now, care to explain what you’re doing opening my mail?”

“It’s my job!” Alfrid squeaks, looking halfway between indignant and hopeful. Then he jerks himself free of Bard’s grip and straightens like a primping cat, haughtily announcing, “I take my duties very seriously, and it’s only right that I check for malicious intent and properly organize letters for the Master of Dale.”

As always, Bard snaps, “Don’t call me that.” Alfrid scowls, and Bard leans over him to snatch the letter away, reflexes far superior. Alfrid tries to grab after it, but he’s too slow, and Bard’s already stepping back to take in the elegant script, carefully devised in the common tongue:

‘ _To Bard, Lord of Dale,_

 _It has just come to my attention that Men consider this time something of a holiday. I have had my advisors explain your traditions, and I would, as such, like to invite you to my halls for a brew of this famed ‘eggnog’ your people so enjoy. As I have the highest regard for your regal bearing, I will even allow you the tradition of sitting on my lap—_ ’

Bard stops reading, sure he’s misunderstood. Over the top of the letter, Alfrid’s looking at him with somehow both wide and beady eyes. Alfrid’s blush and nervousness now make more sense, though the letter makes none at all, and Bard reads on:

‘ _I understand that you are to tell me your greatest wish there, particularly as to what you would have me stuff inside your stocking once I have come down your chimney. I have been told that in return, you are to give me milk and your cookie._ ’

Bard’s fingers might be shaking. He can’t tell if he’s being propositioned or made fun of. Either way, his face feels hot. He can picture Thranduil quite clearly in his mind, dressed in deep scarlet robes with soft, white trim, and an inviting gesture towards his lap. The letter continues:

‘ _As I am a gracious host, I will even attach holly to various ceilings, should you wish to engage in other such traditions with my people. If I have been advised correctly, however, I am the one you will wait at night for. Otherwise, my butler has informed me that your people have silver pine-needle-like binding I may wrap you in, and if I catch you asking further presents of my subjects, I am afraid I will have to decorate you accordingly. But I am sure after your initial stay in my lap, that will not prove a problem._

 _Best Holiday Wishes,  
Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm._ ’

Bard slowly lowers the letter. He isn’t ready for this. He hasn’t even done his holiday shopping yet. He isn’t ready to _sit in Thranduil’s lap and ask for his stocking stuffed._ He stares at the letter a few extra minutes, like a hidden message will magically appear and give away the joke. 

Alfrid butts into his head to say, “You’ll need an official escort, of course; I’d be happy to personally oversee—”

“Go to the stables and ready two horses,” Bard announces. He knows he’s too flustered to make this decision right now. He tries to tell himself he can’t possibly let his children miss an opportunity to spend a holiday with _elves_. He assumes they’re invited. All he really thinks of is sitting by the fire with a certain stunningly attractive Elf King, getting too close over eggnog. Alfrid looks pleased, but Bard clarifies, “I’ll fetch the children.”

Then he’s grabbing up his coat, and Alfrid’s spluttering and racing after him, even though Bard very much doubts that Thranduil would bring Alfrid the present _he_ wants.


End file.
